Oh, Deb. That one hits hard.

That one hits hard.

So does the realisation, all these years later.

God, I want a time machine. So much that needs fixing, so many things I'd love to not have any reason to write painful little drabbles about.

Every time I post one of these, I imagine y'all thinking "Dag, not her Identity Issues again?!" But I hope you don't, because therapy is a pain in the ass, so...

You see me and you don’t see me, because I am both of your world and a stranger...maybe even a double agent. A poster child who carries the stylebook.An angelic telethon singer who comes prepared with, not “Tomorrow” but maybe “I Am Woman” or maybe Carlin’s Seven Words...that’s why I never got to do that...Lord knows what I might say. I am every neighbor on every block who was a little...that way, and so have answered people’s questions, saved up for twenty years, because we are lefties together and I’m fairly sure that you’re not prejudiced.So you think I am, you know, So. Great. Every time they ever ask “Are there any media here?” for half a second I want to raise my surprisingly undamaged looking hand, for the other tribe that halfway didn’t claim me, but makes me pause an extra beat when hearing something described as “sexy” and wonder if it will call for a negligee or my thinking cap. This is the person that counts all the smut on the local news and tells her family “Not to worry, all. It’s sweeps month.” Who says I didn’t use my degree? This is written for all the people who see me at workers’ events and wonder why, because you think “their” holiday is in July. Thanks for noticing. We love you too. This is written for all the people who would expect to see a medical bracelet before one that says “choice” or especially one that says “Never Surrender” This is written for my drunken “sister” in Kansas who made extra time in disability demonstration to tell me I was a sellout for getting my journalism degree. I can’t decide if you are a bitch or our community’s answer to Lenny Bruce, but seven years later, I would finally know what to say: Sellouts have money, all I ever have is words. You probably don’t even remember having made that mark on me, but now I have another costume.

Sellouts have money, all I ever have is words.

And all the richer for it, erika. Excellent drabble.

Quick! Kick me in the ass and tell me I have to write ALL WEEKEND.

I'm so screwed having lost a week.

Allyson! Go! Write! I can't wait to read the rest of it.

Allsyon. Do not make me fly down there with the Writer Stick of Butt-in-Chairness.

::kick!::

Go Write, Woman!

Hi.

I'm just dropping in from out of the blue without lurking to learn the way of the thread, so let me apologize right now in case I am being unspeakably rude.

I have this children's story that I think I want to try to shop around to agents. If someone could look it over and point out what's wrong with it, I'd really appreciate it.